Wednesday, January 23, 2013

That was my comment in my last post before I was called away from Blog Land for a while. I said it kind of tongue-in-cheek at the time, but today I have something to share.

My kitchen is Katrina.

This time, I really mean it.

That's because after years and years of waiting,
I am finally getting a new kitchen floor.

The old one was the bane of my existence. It was made up of textured vinyl squares which were nearly impossible to get clean. We inherited it with the house, and it stretched and stretched and stretched to include two eating areas, a powder room, and a laundry room. That's one of the reasons it has taken so long. This is a huge project.

The other reason has to do with genetics.

I married a Scottish boy, you see, and we don't do a thing around here until we have the cold, hard cash to do it. We actually purchased the tile two years ago, not long after I finally stripped the wallpaper and repainted my big fat 80's kitchen. It has been squatting in the garage ever since.

A few weeks ago, Old MacFrugal decided that he was going to lay that new floor himself, with the help of a few good men who will forever more be called my heroes.

First, though, we had to pull up the ugly vinyl.

It was trying hard to be glued to this plywood layer which had to removed as well. It served no useful purpose other than to be covering yet another layer of vinyl. I would have snapped a picture, but at that point the men were getting a little bit testy.

They finally got it all off and ready to be covered with cement board.

Woohooo!

Those wonderful men worked and worked and worked and finally got every room of cement board installed.

And then, the project stalled as well.

As you might recall, the husband travels during the week and can only honey-do on the weekends. This coming weekend, we'll be in Atlanta with his family, which means that this floor... in all its glory... will bethe floor in my kitchen until further notice.

The good news is, I don't have to mop.

The bad news news is I have one hot mess.

.

Powder room, laundry, and pantry doors off their hinges.

A washer, dryer, stove, and refrigerator

living in the garage along with all my kitchen furniture.

A toilet on the back deck.

Welcome to Georgia.

I tried to hide it behind the old plywood just in case the neighbors can peep
through the piney stick forest. The dead plant is a nice touch too, don't you think?

And that's the way it stands.

But wait! There's more.

You see, I'm taking advantage of the floorless kitchen

to embark on another kitchen project while the husband is out of town.

Apparently, I'm just not content with a little mess.
I have to make a royal one.

Musta been da debil...

Can you tell what it is?

*****

I want to thank you for the kind emails that you sent after the passing of my mother-in-law last week. I apologize for not responding individually yet. I had honestly been too busy to check the computer until a day or so ago but am determined to get caught up soon.

We didn't read the same books, she and I. We didn't like the same movies either. Like her son, she didn't mind the silence that I generally feel the need to fill with prattle. We were pretty much opposites in every area. Every area, that is, except one.

She loved him with all her heart,

and so do I.

After a brief stay in the hospital last week, my mother-in-law passed away yesterday afternoon. She leaves four broken-hearted sons behind, sons who were blessed beyond measure to be raised in the home she made. I am blessed beyond measure to be married to the good man she raised. Her fingerprints are all over him.

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

I don't have anything earth shattering to report this morning. No giant steps. No long jumps into the Stepping Out hall of fame. The only thing I've stepped into is a pair of walking shoes.

I've mentioned before that morning walks with the husband are among my simple pleasures. I even mentioned that winter walks are my favorite walks of all. That's because I get to dress up like the Unibomber and walk incognito.

We haven't been doing much walking lately.

I'd like to blame it on the Christmas busyness or the fact that I married a traveling man, but I can't. I'd also like to blame the fibro pain that seems to have settled in my feet of all places, but I can't do that either.

The plain truth is that the only legitimate way to combat fibromyalgia is to move through it. With fibro, less is more and more is less. The less you move, the more you hurt, and the more you move the less you hurt.

No, pain isn't the reason that I haven't been walking; it's the excuse. Laziness is the reason.

There. I said it.

So yesterday morning, I put on my walking shoes and limped out the door with my faithful companion at my side. Bet you think that's what this post is all about, don't you?

Well, it isn't.

It's about what happened after the walk. We were turning into the driveway, you see, when the husband looked up and said,

Looks like we missed an opportunity.

And then, he pointed.

Can you see it?

It's mistletoe... Smack dab in the middle of our Bradford pear. It had probably been there for months, but it was hiding under all the leafy stuff.

Now folks, I know that the Christmas season is over, but mistletoe is mistletoe, and in my world every season is smooching season. So I planted myself under that Kissing Tree and gave him the face until he got the clue.

Stepping out has it privileges.

In fact, I enjoyed the privilege so much that I convinced him to walk again after dinner. We walked this morning, too, and I have plans for a little blue hour stroll.

I'm convinced that my feet feel better already, and we still have one more morning before he leaves to go out of town. At this rate, I'll be wearing stilettos by Valentine's Day.

That would be just about how long he's willing to leave the mistletoe undisturbed in the tree, too. He may be a romantic, but he's a left- brained romantic. Apparently, mistletoe is actually a parasite, and he thinks it ought to be whacked back before budding season. He has promised to leave just a little bit, though, if I promise to keep walking.

So there you have it:

WhySir Lotsa Hair Kissed the Unibomber and Nauseated the Neighborhood.

Saturday, January 5, 2013

but I have finally finished undecorating the home place. Good-bye Christie Kringle, you big lug...

While I was in no hurry whatsoever to see the spirit of the season go, I was more than ready to clear away the Christmas clutter. I love the festive Christmas decorations, but honestly, the color red is kind of like Christmas candy. By the end of the season, I've had way too much of both of them.

Unfortunately, this presented a bit of a problem. You see, I like my color of the year to go along with my theme of the year, and this year my theme is Stepping Out.

Yep. I enjoyed finding the sunshine so much last year that I thought I might try something a little more daring. This year, I'm going to step out into it.

Out of my comfort zone...

Out of my rut...

Away from my security blanket...

But here's the problem. Stepping out is going to take a bit of boldness, isn't it? And frankly, I can't think of a better color for The Year of Stepping Out than the color red.

Red is all about boldness and confidence.

Red is out there...

right where I plan to be stepping.

So what do you do when you're sick of a potential color of the year before the year even begins? You embark on a Great Red Removal Adventure, of course. You clear away every inch of Christmas red from poinsettia to peppermint. You even remove red accessories that don't have a thing to do with Christmas.

And then, when you are all finished,

you go back and add just a popof it.

So that's exactly what I did.

And that's when it hit me.

Boldness really isa lot like the color red. Both of them in moderation are beautiful things. Too much of either of them, though, is just plain too much. Too much boldness doesn't make you brave; it just makes youbrash. Who wants to be brash?

I don't.

I don't even want to be bold. I just want to be bolder. I just want the courage to take the step and add that missing pop of color to my life.

And that's why 2013 is not the year of red.

It is very specificallythe year of poppy.

Why poppy? Because it pops, of course. Plus, it's the shade you get when you mix a lot of red with just a touch of yellow. Sounds like the perfect color to me.

So there you have it.

I hereby declare that 2013 is the color

Poppy

and I dub itThe Year of Stepping OutNow exactly what I'm steppinginto has yet to be determined.

Wednesday, January 2, 2013

If you're thinking that this blue table is an introduction for my color of the year,

you'll have to think again.

My color is not blue.

I just happen to think that blue is a very New Year-sy color. It goes well with silver, and silver makes me think of bells...

And silver bells make me think of ringing in the New Year.

I don't know why. I have never once walked around ringing a bell on New Year's Eve, have you?

A blue table lets me use my (favorite) Aurora Blue stemware by Denby

And it looks pretty against the Italian Countryside.

Blue also goes well with this nifty mercury glass globe

that my niece gave me for Christmas.

I don't think she intended for me to stick apapertiara on it,

but I did.

She did suggest that I put lights under it to make it twinkle so I did that too.

I think it looks festive that way.

The husband thinks it looks like E.T..

Or possibly a polar bear at the Waldorf Astoria.

Regardless, it made for a festive New Year's Eve centerpiece.

Too bad nobody sat at it.

I just set it on New Year's Eve because I felt like it, and I'm posting it today for the very same reason.

In truth, our New Year's Eve was actually one for the Fuddy Duddy Hall of Fame. We ate our meal on trays in the den and watched You've Got Mail while waiting for the ball to drop. (For the record, that movie is just as good the 100th time as it is the first, and yes...it is entirely possible to cry each time.)

Just before midnight, I grabbed the party hat off the alien polar bear and counted down to the New Year kiss. Then, we said goodnight to the invisible table people and headed to up to bed. Happy New Year!

Yakking all about myself...

Seriously talkative Christian mom who is blessed enough to be married to her favorite friend. We have two nearly grown daughters, one practical--and one whimsical. Together, they have filled our home with the perfect balance of practical whimsy.